


Having a Chat

by QuailiTea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Dialogue-Only, Gen, Kickstarter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12366408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea
Summary: Why hello there fourth wall! Move please! Also, since the OK has been given, I've incorporated the bonus trope as well.





	Having a Chat

The phone rang, and things began to get very strange.

City South.

_Hello Jack._

Er… hello, who is this?

_I’m afraid I’m a writer. You’re a character for me._

Am I now? That’s… unnerving. I feel real enough

_My apologies. I’d like to put you in a story, would that be all right with you? I’m sorry, hanging up the phone isn’t going to help. I’ll just chat through the wall with you._

Happy story? Sad story? I’m still a bit hung up on the character part. Where are you even talking to me from?

_Do you want the long, philosophical explanation that involves the nature of creation, imagination, and will, or the short one that says I find you intriguing, attractive, and fascinating, and would like to follow you around for a bit to make interesting things happen in your life?_

When you put it that way, I guess I can save the philosophical discussion for another day. Are you Miss Fisher? That sounds like something she does.

_No Jack, I’m not. But she’s quite interesting too. Would you mind terribly if she’s in the story as well?_

Do I have a choice?

_I’ll certainly take your opinions into account. I’d be a terrible writer otherwise. Nothing worse to my mind than watching two perfectly lovely characters contorted into ridiculous shapes just so somebody’s favorites can wind up kissing ad etc_.

Kissing? What, you planning on following Miss Fisher around until she flirts me into kissing her? That might take a while.

_I could shove the pair of you into a broom closet and lock the door? It would probably speed things up._

I’d… really prefer not. That seems like it would be awkward.

_Are you sure? Look, here: Broom closet. A cramped room was behind the door, holding the custodial tools of yesteryear; two balding mops, a straw pushbroom that had housed a mouse family at some point, and an upturned bucket that took up that majority of the space. A few wisps of spiderweb stretched across the ceiling, and the scent of mold was pervasive and direly pungent._

How on earth did you do that? There’s a broom closet behind me now, and it stinks like a troop carrier.

_Writer._

Nice trick.

_Why thank you._

If you’re going to force me into a broom closet though, why would it need to smell like mold and have spiders in it? If you’re in charge of this, you could certainly lock me in a clean one.

_I could. But it’s more fun if it’s moldy and you have to step gingerly. And I could put a spider down Miss Fisher’s dress, which would lead to her taking it off…_

Why do I suddenly get the feeling I’m bargaining with the Devil?

_Oh, come on, you’ve seen her topless. Multiple times, if you count that painting of hers._

Now, listen, I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, but I would certainly never take advantage-

_Easy, easy Jack. I told you I’d take your preferences into account. Can you really imagine I’d be less polite to your indomitable distaff partner? Good gravy, things would go utterly haywire._

More haywire than usual with her around?

_Fair. Now, are we for sure nixing the broom closet idea?_

Can we, please? I’ve been in a closet with her before, and while the cottage pie was delicious, we were eventually interrupted by a burglary. If you’ve got power over space and time, I’d really prefer the seaside, or somewhere I can ride my bicycle.

_Easily arranged. Let me do a little quick research and get that set up._

Research?

_Of course. A broom closet is just a broom closet, but if I want to give you Queenscliff in 1929 or Paris or what have you, I’d like it to be accurate._

I think peacetime France might be nice. Considerate of you to look it up.

_Well, again, I don’t like things to be contorted to fit. Point of personal pride._

So, you’re going to give me a beach or a boardwalk to ride my bicycle on. And I just, ride along in peace? Take a nap under a tree? Eat lunch?

_Er, well… No. Sorry. That wouldn’t be interesting for very long. And I like interesting._

What are you planning, exactly? I’d like to know what to pack, if nothing else.

_I haven’t gotten that far yet. And I can’t tell you everything. It would spoil the surprise. For both of us._

So, incredibly powerful, ability to throw my entire life into chaos, and you really have no plan. Are you sure you’re not Miss Fisher?

_Positive. Her clothing is a lot nicer than mine, for starters. Ok, how about this: Tour de France, 1930. You’ve gone to watch, not participate. Should be some very beautiful scenery, and you haven’t seen France until you’ve seen it with the lavender in bloom._

You’re very kind. How am I getting there?

_You have any old RAAF buddies, or should I have Miss Fisher fly you there?_

I think I’ll take my chances with the RAAF. Miss Fisher is in London, anyway.

_Until I start with her. Writer, remember?_

You can do that too?

_Oh sure. In point of fact, the broom closet might actually be more difficult._

Really?

_Well, which is Miss Fisher more likely to do, fly to another country on a whim, or voluntarily enter a spider-infested closed space?_

I see your point. I suppose I could meet her there?

_Oh sure, that’s easy. Just a moment, please._

I’m not sure that ‘moment’ to you means the same thing that it does to me, given that you seem to be in charge of reality.

_Well, under the assumption that your life is proceeding at a fairly regular pace, I don’t want to just seize you by your coat lapels and throw you at France. All the loose ends I’d have to tie off, or else the readers tend to get quite upset._

Oh, there are readers I’m answering to now?

_Oh no, they’re perfectly happy with you. It’s me who's liable to get the battlements stormed. Although if you’re concerned about keeping their interest, you could take your tie off._

My tie?

_Just trust me. But save it for later. If you do it now, there’s going to be raised expectations which we’re going to both be a little uncomfortable exploring._

Ah. Oh… I believe I see your point. Well, you’ve convinced me you aren’t Miss Fisher, at least.

_I was hoping I would. Detectives can’t take everyone at their word though, so I completely understand. OK, so, how does this sound?_

\--“We need to get warm.”--

\--“At the South Pole, they recommend skin-to-skin contact.”--

\--“And what would you know about the South Pole?”--

\--“More than you do about being skin-to-skin with anyone.”--

Is that… is that supposed to be me?

_Do you not like it?_

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, but that sounds like an interchange between Constable Collins and a particularly fractious Miss Williams.

_You think? Hmm… I could see it. Oh HUGH!_

Sir? Sir, what’s going on? Who are you talking to? And where did this broom closet come from? It smells like my little brothers’ room.

That is a matter of some philosophical confusion, I’m afraid, Collins.

If you say so, sir.

_Hello Hugh! Pleased to see you! Could I get your opinion on something please_

What – who – I… sir?

It has to do with the broom closet. Just listen to the lady for a moment.

_Thank you so much Jack. Now, Hugh, does this sound like you and your lady-love? The Inspector doesn’t seem to think it sounds like him._

\--“We need to get warm.”--

\--“At the South Pole, they recommend skin-to-skin contact.”--

\--“You’ve been to the South Pole?”--

\--“Possibly by ‘they’ I mean me. And possibly by ‘South Pole’, I might mean anywhere. Generally. With you.”--

That sounds like Miss Fisher to me, sir. Ma’am. Mrs. Disembodied Voice-thing.

_Writer. Mrs. Disembodied-Voice sounds like a far different genre._

Those are not the lines you ran by me a second ago.

_Well, you’re right. It was far too tetchy for it to be you and Miss Fisher. But I’m very glad to have a unanimous opinion?_

I do agree there. Sounds much less combative than that first version.

Sorry sir, what are we agreeing on?

_I’m trying to get the Inspector to France to meet Miss Fisher during a bicycle race. And possibly dump a great deal of cold water on them both somehow._

Ah. Why?

Readership, apparently.

I see. And that…. Also has to do with the broom closet?

_Tangentially, yes. Any suggestions for the cold water part, Hugh? I don’t think snow is going to be happening, and a rainstorm in summer isn’t likely to be cold enough._

Er… there are lots of catacombs in France, right? Maybe one of them is cold and wet?

_Ah, brilliant! Hold on just another moment please._

Thank you for that Collins. I was not looking forward to being thrown into the ocean.

Of course….

_Here we go! The catacombs they had landed in were drab and damp in a way that spoke of withered saints and drunken nuns hiding from Mother Superior. Jack dragged his hand along one seeping wall and his hand came away wet with mold. Arrayed throughout the dimly-illuminated room were stone sarcophagi in various states of damage, the bones once interred there scattered across the floor, though whether by animals or grave robbers, it was unclear._

That’s unsettling when you do that.

_Apologies. If you open the door on your left, you can go back to City South. Watch the skull on the floor._

That’s… also unsettling. But I’d much rather be here in my office than in that catacomb, at least while there’s no explanation for why I’d be there.

_Oh, here’s a rag. There’s still gross on your hand._

Sir, how is she doing that?

_Writer! Now, don’t either of you fret. I promise we’ll all have a very good reason for all of this by the time I’m done. That’s my job. For now, take care!_

The mysterious voice disappeared from consciousness, and Jack and Hugh looked at each other, both feeling distinctly uneasy in a way that was difficult to parse.

“Sir, did that really just happen?”

“I don’t know what just happened, Collins,” Jack said, his composure slowly returning. He wiped his hand on the rag on his desk, and with a small -pop- it disappeared from existence, along with the door to the French catacombs and the broom closet that had manifested itself in the front room of the police station. “But she sounded like a principled sort, if a bit disorganized. Whoever she was.”

“I just hope she doesn’t go scaring Dottie like that,” Hugh said, shaking his head. “Now, sir, I did have that report for you. It’s just over here where the broom closet was.”

Jack nodded, his mind slowly returning to work. But as he took the file folder from his constable, he spared a small smile towards the wall where the voice had been coming from, and loosened his tie just a hair.


End file.
